by Fiona Valpy
* * *
By Friday morning, excitement crackled in the air as the truck rumbled up the driveway and manoeuvred to get as close to the barn as possible. The two hefty roadies jumped down from the cab and began unloading flight cases full of kit.
Sara was amused to note that, whilst they weren’t officially on duty today, the whole team just happened to have turned up, drawn by the lure of Château Bellevue’s first ever rock concert-come-wedding: they’d all be there tomorrow as well, the opportunity to have ringside seats at a celeb-spangled party—and the kudos this assured within the local community—too exciting to miss. Karen’s husband, Didier, a lifelong Steel Thornes fan, was also coming, and Karen had reported that he’d even dug out an old denim jacket with the band’s logo on it, which fit fine—just as long as he didn’t actually try to button it up over his age-thickened midriff.
Thomas was buzzing with his role in it all and he was on hand today to help with the set-up. Over a lunch of bread and cheese, washed down with several bottles of beer, the roadies regaled them with stories of life on the road with the band.
‘Where was it we did that concert in the old Mig hangar?’ Stan prompted Andy, drawing hard on his cigarette.
‘Kazakhstan, wasn’t it? Or—no, Poland I think. Was it after Berlin or before?’
‘Dunno. It all blurs into one when you’re on tour. We’re in a different venue every night and sleeping on the tour bus on the way to the next concert most days. ’Course, usually it wouldn’t be us driving the truck, let alone setting up the kit. But we’ve been with the band for ten years now; we’d do anything for them. They’re like family really. It’s such a small party this time, so we agreed to do it. Thorne insisted on keeping it that way, didn’t want it to be a full-on gig like his label would’ve liked. It is supposed to be him an’ Patti’s wedding after all. And if the rumours are true and she really is, you know—’ Stan’s hand described an even more rounded belly in front of his already generous girth—‘then it’s not surprising.’
Around the table, they all digested this juicy nugget of gossip and Sara hoped, against hope, that it wouldn’t be in general circulation on the streets of Coulliac within the hour.
‘So how many trucks would you normally have on tour?’ Thomas hung on the roadies’ every word, enthralled.
‘’Bout a dozen normally. Maybe a few less for festivals. We’ve just brought the bare essentials for tomorrow, yeah? Speakers, amps, a basic lighting rig, sound desk, lighting desk. Some staging. Drum kit. One laser.’
‘A laser! Where’s that going?’
‘It’s a Skytracker. It’ll be beaming into the sky above the château. Production assistant’s checked with air traffic control so it won’t interfere with any aircraft. She said she was sorting out a gennie from the local hire-place—have they delivered it yet? And the pyro guy’s turning up this afternoon, yeah?’ Andy checked with Sara.
‘If a “gennie” is a generator then yes, that’s here. And if “pyro” means fireworks then yes to that as well: we’ve got a local specialist coming—he should be here at two.’
‘Okay, we’ll need to co-ordinate with him. Does he speak English?’
‘I’ll translate for you,’ Thomas volunteered eagerly.
Sara grinned at him. He had the unselfconscious enthusiasm of a child, which combined most attractively with his natural confidence and sunny exterior. But she recalled their conversation by the river a couple of weeks ago, when a shadow had momentarily crossed his face as he spoke about being like his mother. She suspected he hadn’t shared that with anyone else; everyone around here knew him simply as the happy-go-lucky younger son at Château de la Chapelle, where he belonged.
As she cleared away the lunch things, she watched him through the kitchen window where he was helping run lengths of cable from the barn to the generator which would provide the power for the show.
So much for thinking it was probably just a one-night fling. They’d spent every night together since that first starlit evening last weekend, and it felt so natural being with him. She hadn’t thought at all about where their relationship might be going; it was a novelty simply enjoying their easy lovemaking in the tiny cottage up on their hilltop fortress, tucked away from the rest of the world. It felt like time out of time. Losing herself in the smell and the taste of him, letting her body respond reflexively as his hands moved over it, she’d blocked out thoughts of the uncertainty of the future for them both: would she still be here in a few months’ time? And would Thomas already have set off on his travels?
Watching him at lunch, caught up in tales of life on the road, she could see he was already imagining himself there, footloose and fancy-free, new horizons luring him on.
She was resigned to this being simply a slightly longer fling than previously anticipated. And in any case, she told herself, that was all she wanted right now. After Gavin’s humiliating betrayal and departure, she wasn’t sure she could ever really trust anyone again. There were still wounds that needed to heal, even if time spent with Thomas did feel like the perfect balm for her bruised and battered soul. And now it occurred to her that maybe precisely the reason it was so good was that there was no future. Perhaps short-term, no-strings affairs were all she would be capable of committing to from here on in. Next year—and no doubt a return to celibacy—would come round soon enough, so she’d better make the most of this miraculous, joyful, warm-hearted man while he was here. No need to protect her heart, just live for the moment and enjoy it while it lasted...
Karen and the girls were helping wash up and put away when Thomas came through the kitchen, on the way to tracking down a screwdriver and, on his way past, he caught her in his arms and kissed her full on the lips, making no attempt whatsoever to keep up any pretence of discretion in front of the others. Karen laughed as the Héls Belles exchanged a knowing nod of approval.
And then Thomas came back through, screwdriver in hand, and did it again, hamming it up for the benefit of the others, almost sweeping Sara off her feet as he bent her backwards in a tango hold. Righting her again, he grinned and said, ‘Come on, guys, Andy and Stan are setting up the drum kit—who wants a go?’
‘I’ll be along in a minute.’ Sara chivvied the others out of the kitchen, suddenly needing a moment to herself, overwhelmed by the extremes of emotion that swept through her.
While the others were so caught up in the party preparations, she was quietly carrying the heavy burden of her anxiety about the future on her shoulders. It felt like a physical weight, exhausting to sustain. She sat back down and rested her head for a moment, cushioning it on her arms on the scrubbed wooden surface of the kitchen table. She was beginning to suspect that Fate, cunningly disguised as the French banking system, was conspiring against her. She’d turned up at the bank on Wednesday, only to find that—of course!—it was a public holiday. And when she’d phoned the next day she’d been told that, non, the manager was, in fact, away on holiday and wouldn’t be back for another ten days. And non, she couldn’t make an appointment with anyone else. And non, they couldn’t put an appointment in his diary; it would have to wait for his return. An email address? Non. So, if his colleagues were anything to go by, she had a nasty feeling she knew what the bank manager was going to say in response to her request for a loan to buy out Gavin’s share of the business.
Faced with the unhelpful brick wall of French bureaucracy on top of Gavin’s desertion, she was starting to feel she might be losing the will to fight; the surge of fierce possessiveness for the château, that had swept through her veins so strongly a few days ago, dissolving now in the cold light of financial reality. Niggling doubts were creeping in, especially when, alone in the cottage, she re-read Gavin’s officious letter. Perhaps, after all, the best thing really would be to sell, cutting her losses and leaving. She wouldn’t want to stay anywhere else in the area, with Thomas gone and her beloved château gazing down reproachfully at her from its hilltop perch. But she wasn’t quite ready yet to cal
l the agent who’d sold them the château...
From the barn, she heard a gust of laughter and then the rhythmic beat of a drum. She pulled herself together, squaring her shoulders, and, taking a deep breath, went to re-join the others.
* * *
Sara was helping the harried-looking girl from the production company allocate bedrooms. ‘Thorne and Patti are in the honeymoon suite, of course. Then I thought Mr Black might like the garden room as it’s the next biggest.’ Richie Black managed The Steel Thornes and Sara was conscious that his status as owner of The Black Label meant he expected to take precedence over the other members of the band. The girl checked a list on her clipboard and made a couple of notes. She’d arrived before the others on a scheduled flight that morning; the main party was arriving by private plane, and a small fleet of Mercedes minibuses had been hired to bring them to the château. ‘Okay. Thanks, Sara, it’s all looking good.’
Some of the guests—the bass guitarist and drummer, an up-and-coming rapper who was also signed to The Black Label, a couple of ageing supermodels—weren’t even going to be staying the night. They’d drop in for the party and then be driven back to the airport where their respective executive jets would whisk them off to their next exotic destination for work or play. ‘How the other half live,’ Karen had remarked, as Sara was running through the arrangements at the pre-wedding briefing session.
‘I can’t believe how down-to-earth they are!’ Hélène was helping Sara prepare a tray of tea things to take to Patti and Thorne, now safely installed in the honeymoon suite.
‘I know,’ Sara smiled. ‘It’s not exactly rock’n’roll, is it? A pot of Earl Grey tea and a plate of shortbread.’
Patti had looked grey with tiredness when they arrived, and Thorne had put a protective arm around her shoulders. He’d turned down Richie Black’s invitation to join the others for a couple of jugs of Margaritas by the pool: ‘Nah, think we’ll just chill for a while.’
Antoine was in his element, mixing cocktails with a flourish, with an admiring Héloise at his side squeezing lemons and trotting back to the cellar for another couple of bottles of Tequila when needed.
Sara tapped gently on the door of the honeymoon suite. ‘Come in!’ Thorne called.
She set the tray down and Patti emerged from the direction of the bathroom, smiling gratefully as the sight of the home-made biscuits. ‘Oh, great.’ She took one, ‘This might help settle my stomach.’ She stroked her faintly rounded belly, a gentle curve on her tall, skinny frame. ‘Four months in and the morning sickness is still as bad as it was at the start.’ She shook her head ruefully.
‘Come and lie down for a while.’ Thorne was solicitous. ‘Gotta save your energy for your wedding, doll.’
Patti lowered herself thankfully onto the bed.
‘Is there anything else I can bring you?’ Sara asked.
‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any Rennies, have you?’ Patti asked with a sigh. ‘I know it’s not exactly the rock-star image Richie wants us to project, but after the flight I’ve got terrible heartburn.’
Sara laughed. ‘Of course. Coming right up!’
‘Thanks, you’re a star. And thanks for having us in your lovely château. It’s a stunning spot you’ve got here. We were determined to find the kind of place that we wanted for the wedding. If it’d been left up to Richie, he’d have had us getting married on a super-yacht in St Tropez, or some flash resort in the Caribbean.’
‘Yeah, or Vegas, baby! That was his other suggestion—do it on stage at the end of the show.’ Thorne shook his head, his trademark shoulder-length dark hair shot with threads of silver these days. It was a look he carried off well, Sara thought. In fact, if anything, he was better-looking than ever. And Patti was still amazing, even if her model looks had softened slightly with age and pregnancy. They certainly had something, these celebrities, an aura that set them apart from the ordinary.
‘For once, Thorne put his foot down though.’ Patti smiled up at him and gently stroked his chiselled jawline as he stooped to hand her a cup of tea. ‘Relaunching The Steel Thornes is one thing, but using our wedding as a PR opportunity is taking it a step too far.’
‘Yeah, be nice not to have the media circus for once. Today’s about you and me, Patti-pan, not the band.’ He laid a hand carefully on her belly. ‘And the kid, of course.’
Sara slipped out, touched at having been witness to this intimate scene. She was pleased they’d chosen the château, out of all the other venues they could have had at their disposal. Behind the scenes of the rock and roll showmanship, this was a really solid-looking relationship. She wondered whether she would ever have what Patti and Thorne did—not the material wealth, and certainly not the celebrity status, but the quiet, calm warmth of intimacy and understanding that forged such a solid bond between them. Maybe even someone she could start a family of her own with...
She swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I’ll be right back with the Rennies for you,’ she said, as she reached to draw the door closed, giving them their privacy. ‘Let me know if there’s anything else you need.’
* * *
Henri Dupont hardly knew which way to point his camera as the bevy of glitterati milled about outside the chapel. Thorne and Patti had been specific in their instructions, relayed to Sara via the production assistant at The Black Label: they wanted photos to be taken immediately before and after the service—no video though, and no photographers present at the meal and the party. So Thomas was keeping a close eye on Henri and would make sure he left once the official wedding pictures were in the can. With so much nubile celebrity temptation around, Henri was going to be loath to tear himself away.
The early evening air was heavy and humid and the champagne was flowing freely, although Sara noticed that Patti and Thorne hardly touched their full glasses as they circulated amongst their guests before dinner. The Thornes’ lead guitarist had set up an amp at the entrance to the marquee and played the bride and groom in with a rendition of the band’s hit Perfection.
Once everyone was safely seated, Sara popped across to the barn to make sure all was ready there. Thomas was helping the two roadies with something on the panel of high-tech kit that they’d set up alongside the disco. Stan scratched his head. ‘Bloody dodgy French wiring. I just hope that gennie’s going to be up to the job. If we don’t balance the phases right, the whole lot will blow. There! That’s it. Yes! Sorted!’ Stan clapped Thomas on the back as the video projector lit up the far wall. ‘Guy’s a natural,’ he said to Sara with a grin. ‘Any time you want a job on the tour, just let us know, Thomas.’
Thomas beamed. ‘I may well take you up on that.’
Sara suppressed a pang of sadness, which made her throat constrict with her own unspoken sense of loss at the thought of him being gone. Their paths were going to lead them in different directions soon enough, and she should be glad for him when it happened, but she knew, suddenly, that it was going to be much harder than she had ever imagined when the time came. Smiling brightly to camouflage this emotion, she moved on quickly. Everything was fine here; he didn’t need her.
* * *
The generator was humming in a corner behind the barn and Andy flicked a switch. Suddenly the white beam of the laser swept the sky and a faint cheer could be heard from the valley below, where the lights of the village twinkled brightly. There was a low hum from the speakers and then the band blasted into ‘Heart of Steel’, the hit that had launched them onto the music scene two decades ago. As The Steel Thornes rocked Château Bellevue on its foundations, a spectacular firework display lit up the night sky.
Thomas materialised beside Sara as she stood in the shadows just beyond the open doors of the barn. He put an arm around her and pulled her to him. His eyes were alive with the buzz of the concert. He bent his mouth to her ear to make himself heard. ‘Incredible! Look what you’ve achieved, bringing such an event to this corner of the world. It’s crazy!’
She smiled up at him. ‘With a lo
t of help from my friends.’
Another rocket exploded in the sky above their heads, the boom reverberating through their bodies in counterpoint to the pounding of the drums and bass guitar.
A pall of smoke hung in the air above them, the beam of the laser slicing into it. The smell of gunpowder mingled with the faint undertones of cigarettes and expensive perfume that floated on the air.
Thomas glanced skywards and nudged Sara. ‘It’s clouded over. I hope the rain holds off until the show’s over.’ She nodded.
They stood together watching as the band played on. Finally Thorne Sharpe, microphone in hand, stepped to the front of the stage. He held up his hands to quieten the cheers from the assembled wedding guests. ‘Before our final number, I have an announcement to make. In case you didn’t know already, my wife and I—’ he paused to let the resurgence of cheers die down once again—‘are expecting a baby in February, on Valentine’s Day to be precise. So this tour will be my last, for a while at least. The boys and I,’ he threw out an arm to include the band, ‘want to get back into the studio and record some new stuff. But in these uncertain times, the powers that be aren’t convinced there’s a market for The Steel Thornes’ music any more. So it’s going to be a question of watch this space... Who knows where we’ll all be by the end of the year.’
You and me both, thought Sara in the shadows.
Lightning flickered, illuminating the scene for a second, and a growl of thunder reverberated like a soft drum roll.
‘But tonight all that matters is one thing,’ Thorne continued. ‘Patti: this one’s for you.’
And with that, the band crashed into the opening bars of Perfection. But the opening bars were as far as they got because, just as Thorne stepped to the mic to sing, there was an almighty crack and a flash of white light and then a stunned silence as the barn was plunged into darkness. From across the valley, the faint sound of cheering could be heard again as the people of Coulliac applauded this grand finale, as if The Steele Thornes had conjured up the thunderclap themselves.